


Begonia Skies Like a Sleepyhead

by BurgerBurgerBurger



Category: Carmen Sandiego (Cartoon 2019)
Genre: Clubbing, Drinking & Talking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Femslash, Fluff and Smut, Halloween, Sharing a Bed, when your whole opinion of the mean hot girl changes because you found out she's sapphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurgerBurgerBurger/pseuds/BurgerBurgerBurger
Summary: "Interesting," Sheena smirks, suppressing a shiver at the memory, the whistle of air and the primal fear it evoked low in her stomach. She really can't imagine hating her more.
Relationships: Paper Star/Tigress | Sheena
Comments: 29
Kudos: 95





	Begonia Skies Like a Sleepyhead

**Author's Note:**

> This is fun and light and gratuitous, so I hope you enjoy it. Please enable creator style if you haven't already!
> 
> Spoilers for _Carmen Sandiego_ S3:E3 and for _Hocus Pocus_ (yes, I'm warning you about spoilers for the 1993 film _Hocus Pocus_ ). Happy Halloween!

The problem is that it's after midnight in New Orleans and _technically_ Halloween is over, and Sheena has had no fun at all.

Her ribs still ache where Black Sheep slammed a stainless steel prep table into her, and the chopping bump of the airboat sends a jolt of pain into her diaphragm that knocks the wind out of her all over again each time it hits a log or a lilypad or an alligator or whatever else is in this god-forsaken swamp. A violent scowl paints her face as she hunches in the cheap plastic chair. All she wants is to shower and get all dolled up, and get away from these people long enough to forget that this mess ever happened.

Sheena failed to complete her mission again, worse this time because she'd been saddled with a partner, a literal plus one, and they all knew the three-strike rule at V.I.L.E. She knows what happened to Graham. The Faculty could only make excuses defending her for so long, despite her otherwise stellar track record. 

Carmen Sandiego and her soulless ginger friends have thwarted her again, her and Paper Star both, and she feels the corner of her lip curl up in displeasure. She watched Paper Star fall not once but twice that evening, her thigh-high boots disappearing down a trash chute from the kitchen as Sheena's stomach dropped along with her.

The terrified scream rang in her ears— instantly choked by the _mess_ of a dead operative: the paperwork, the burden, the trauma of watching her die— and overpowered her in that moment, and she gasped, claws digging into the metal of the chute. At least Paper Star could keep up with her, unlike the boys; she was an asset in a fight, all long-distance precision and clever angles, where Tigress could close the gap and unleash her fury in a headlong assault.

Carmen got lucky fighting them in the kitchen, and Paper Star got lucky in the trash chute, landing in a massive bin, safe but disgusting. Sheena's concern returned to haughty detachment, hoping no one saw the fear on her face, or heard the little gasp that escaped her lips, only the insult that followed.

"She was cramping my style anyway," Sheena said, loud enough for them both to hear, but Carmen Sandiego was already gone.

The second time Paper Star fell, this time off of the mansion's stone balcony and into the water below, Sheena flinched. She was not a good swimmer in spite of all the time she spent on her parents' yacht, and drowning was her worst nightmare, particularly in the glorified sewage of Louisiana's backwoods. But her mission partner emerged from the sludge, gasping and gagging, and Sheena reluctantly extended a hand to help her into the airboat. She'd take too long crawling up on her own.

"Thanks a _bunch_ ," Paper Star sneers, wiping her hand on her thigh as if Sheena is the one doused in mud and reeking of bayou water.

So Tigress, who is by her nature a very mean girl and has never known when to leave good enough alone, rubs it in. She turns in the bucket chair and says, "Your diving form needs work." 

Paper Star glares, holding up a drenched square of pink paper. "When this dries out, I'll kill you with it."

Sheena knows she's good for it too; it's no idle threat. The paper throwing stars whizzed past her ears in the mansion— embedding themselves like bullets in the wall around her, never grazing her body, precise and deadly and unforgiving— and she bitterly envies her versatility. Anything sharp would do for Paper Star: she could kill with a newspaper as easily as she laced up her tacky thigh-high combat boots.

"Interesting," Sheena smirks, suppressing a shiver at the memory, the whistle of air and the primal fear it evoked low in her stomach. She really can't imagine hating her more.  
  


* * *

  
"It is crowded," says the taller Cleaner in his gravelly voice.

The four of them stand in the lobby of the French Market Inn, jostled by party-goers and too-drunk bar hoppers, trying to check into their rooms. The Cleaners handled their sleeping arrangements for the night, a last minute predicament made stranger by their failure. Had they succeeded, Sheena would be asleep on a private jet by now, flying to her next rendezvous location. But losers didn't get the choice missions. Losers had to wait.

A gangly boy dressed as Spider-Man, clearly underage, vomits into a potted plant six feet away from her. Sheena scoffs. It's barely 1am.

The taller Cleaner continues, "They only had two rooms."

"Halloween," shrugs the shorter Cleaner. Sheena doesn't know either of their names and has zero desire to spend a moment longer in their presence. He points between her and Paper Star, who stands with a murky puddle forming beneath her white boots. "But one room for us, one for you."

Paper Star scoffs and rolls her eyes.

Sheena's anger surges from a simmer to a boil at having to spend a moment longer with her flippant, useless partner and all the dead algae now growing in her hair, but as Sheena opens her mouth to deliver a particularly cruel tongue-lashing to the inept men, Paper Star strides in silence to the front desk and snatches the electronic room key. She turns with a frown to the staircase.

With a roll of her eyes, Sheena follows. She doesn't want to risk losing her choice of bed— the AC units are merciless in the south and would keep her awake all night no matter how she tried to control the temperature; she's learned that much from traveling— or access to the shower. She's certainly not staying in some noisy hotel on Halloween night, whatever is left of it, when that option means spending alone time with Paper Star or the Cleaners.

She wants to dance fast and drink hard until she ruins her blood alcohol content, and find some girl dressed as a sexy nurse who won't ask questions and has a few hours to spend distracting her from the sting of failure. There's a famous club half a mile away and, while she probably already missed the drag show, she thinks she can still get in and enjoy herself before everything closes at 4am.

She noisily wheels her Louis Vuitton luggage to the stairs instead, hoisting it up with a grunt as she climbs. Her ribs stretch and quake but she pushes through the pain and past Paper Star, whose mascara drips heavily down her cheeks, and reaches their door first. She blocks it with her body, one hand on her hip.

"I got here first, so I get to shower first."

Paper Star stares blankly at her. She takes a step closer, room key in hand, deftly opening the door through the triangle of Sheena's arm. This close she absolutely reeks of swamp water and filth, and Sheena flinches back, half-falling into their room with a disgusted noise. It's spacious and clean enough inside: an exposed brick wall features paintings of horse-drawn carriages, and windows overlooking a little courtyard bathed in the glow of distant streetlamps, dotted with the cherry-red cigarettes of the patrons smoking downstairs.

Her stomach knots in agony. In the center of the brick wall, covered in gold-trim pillows and topped with tight ivory sheets stands the only bed in the room.

"Guess I'll just lay down then," Paper Star hums behind her. "Enjoy your shower."

Sheena wheels on her, white hair stinging her face, and words pour out like water from a broken faucet, "No, do _not_ lay down. You're disgusting. I don't even want to shower. I'm going out."

Paper Star tosses her backpack into the bathroom with an arrogant smirk. "Where?" she asks.

A flush courses up Sheena's neck and cheeks, hot and stifling, and she curses her pale skin. "I don't remember inviting you," she snaps.

"Hmm," Paper Star replies. She closes the bathroom door, runs a shower, and her humming carries through the suite, tickling Sheena's ears as she sits unhappily on the bed.  
  


* * *

  
When Paper Star emerges from the bathroom, her hair is wet and straight, longer than Sheena predicted, parted neatly down the middle, half aqua, half inky black. She wears her only her small towel, not at all the sleepwear Sheena expected, and carries a set of black clothing in one arm: boots, skirt, tank top, a different leather jacket. One wireless AirPod sticks out of her ear as she flips through music on her phone.

Nicks and cuts scar her hands, faded with age from practicing her origami long ago. She's a small woman, petite with corded muscles and built like a runner, and she looks even younger without her makeup. So young she could pass for a high school student, unlike Sheena, who has looked 23 since she was 13 and all of her father's creepy old friends made sure to mention it every time they interacted.

"See something you like, _Tigress_?"

Sheena starts, her heart pounding, and realizes how blatantly she was staring. She rips off her mask and unbuttons the top layer of her body armor, awkwardly tugging at her tungsten gloves, her weapons, a custom design by Dr. Bellum. She jealously considers how Paper Star makes her own weapons, infinitely more useful.

"No, I certainly don't," she snaps.

There is a long pause in which neither of them move, but Paper Star keenly watches her in the mirror's reflection, her eyes narrowing.

"Where are you going tonight?"

Sheena's lip curls. "What's it matter to you?"

Paper Star sits cross-legged in front of the floor-length mirror, her makeup bag in her lap. She shrugs as she dabs a brush in her bright purple eye shadow. "I'm going to Oz, so if you see me on Bourbon, walk the other way."

Sheena stops mid-zip, distracted by the rushing blood in her ears. Paper Star watches her in the mirror, one eye open as she paints on the powder, humming under her breath. Oz is the club Sheena wanted to go to, famous for its annual Halloween party and gay as hell. Her parents don't know, of course. They don't know anything about her, but she thought, if only she could get in the front door before Oz closed, some measure of her awful night might be improved.

She rethinks her plans with a frown. She doesn't know anything about this girl, except for her penchant for nastiness and unpredictable behavior. Even testing the water could be dangerous, but she needs to know.

"Oz is a gay club," she says.

"Wow, pussycat," Paper Star scoffs. "If you're bothered by the homosexuals, then maybe don't go there."

"I'm not _bothered_ , you absolute twit. I'm a lesbian."

The words burst out of her on impulse, far faster than the first time she disclosed this information to her crew. They knew, back on the island. The Faculty didn't bat an eyelash at her admission when reviewing her dossier, perhaps because they were all queers too, at least the three women, and the boys knew as well, along with Black Sheep, long before she became Carmen.

But Paper Star blinks in silence, observing Sheena's out-of-body experience with curious pleasure. Sheena's a private person, and has never been so quick to disclose personal details of any sort, particularly to other operatives with a known history of leveraging that sort of information, but she is a woman with weak points and spiteful predictability: she loves proving people wrong with as much arrogance and condescension as humanly possible.

Paper Star's eyes flick to Sheena's hands. She says, "Not with those claws, you're not."

"They're gloves," Sheena sneers.

She unzips her claws, tossing them on the bed, and reveals five well-trimmed nails, one of which raises to eye level and daintily shoots Paper Star the bird. Sheena sets her mask on the TV stand and retreats to the bathroom to change, feeling the prickle of Paper Star's gaze on her back every step of the way.  
  


* * *

  
After Sheena's turn in the bathroom, Paper Star is fully dressed, looking like she's ready for a KISS concert or something. Sheena doesn't keep up with music trends. She only knows the radio station of low-key 70s yacht rock that her parents always played at parties. Personally, Sheena wouldn't have bothered washing her hair— she didn't want to have to straighten it again and, unlike some people, it didn't naturally fall into perfectly parted lines after blow drying— but did manage to get dressed and reapply her makeup in the privacy of the bathroom.

Her strapless bra rests just on the edge of her bruised ribs, aching and tender, but she pushes down the pain. Sheena has never been an optimist or the person who could make the best of a bad situation, but she _is_ an opportunist, and she'll be damned if she squanders the rest of Halloween night in New Orleans.

She sits on the edge of the bed and zips up her black ankle boots, pointedly ignoring the other side where Paper Star rolls black fishnets up her legs. She has her own bruises on the back of her knees, a canopy of mottled yellow-green leaves, another mark from their earlier misadventure. She slammed hard against the lip of that trash chute before careening over the edge; it's a wonder she could walk after that.

"Are you even old enough to get into Oz?" Sheena asks.

A laugh shakes the bed, incredulous and not-at-all amused. "I'm twenty-fucking-one."

"You look like a pre-teen."

"You look like you're forty."

Her lips twist with unaffected disapproval. It's nothing she hasn't heard before. Jean-Paul and Antonio threw catty little insults her way constantly, and her skin was thick enough from her friends that the barbing insults of strangers meant nothing to her.

Sheena scoffs, "Lucky for me plenty of girls are into MILFs. Good luck finding a man who isn't an absolute creep when you're dressed like a sad stripper, Paper Star."

"First of all, stop being weird. It's Tammy. Second of all, look at my hair," she points to her two-toned bangs. "I am so incredibly bisexual." She slides into a black leather jacket covered with sharp studs and buckles, then adds, "And everyone loves a sad stripper."

Sheena grinds her teeth. She wasn't allowed to read her dossier before the mission, and Paper Star was in the class after hers. She knew very little of the operative beyond the horror stories Jean-Paul and Antonio told her of torture and betrayal, both of which she could forgive— Sheena certainly wasn't above a dash of traitorous violence— but her rudeness is completely inexcusable.

"What are you even supposed to be?" Sheena asks.

"I'm _obviously_ a punk."

Tammy sticks out her tongue and pops the sign of the horns before her eyes drop lower, lingering on Sheena's low cut neckline. She wears an orange-and-black striped bodycon dress over her stiletto boots, minimal silver jewelry, and her standard tiger mask rests on her head. It's too useful to go anywhere without it.

"What are you?" Tammy asks. "No, let me guess. A slutty divorcee?"

"Still a-"

"A furry?"

"A tiger, _punk_ ," Sheena says, harshly popping her enunciation.

"Predictable."

Sheena tilts her head. "If it works, it works, and girls love kitties."

"Well, I have the only room key," Tammy flashes the plastic card before expertly palming it, "so if you plan on sleeping here tonight, you'd better keep up when you tag along."

"Tag along? I didn't invite you either. _I_ was going to Oz before you said _you_ were going to Oz."

"Sure, Jan."

Sheena blinks. Her mother watched _The Brady Bunch_ religiously, but she didn't expect a reference to it from a bitchy V.I.L.E. zoomer in the year of our lord 2019. "You watch _The Brady Bunch_?"

"No, grandma," Tammy's eyebrows knit together. "It's a meme."

She's familiar with the concept from her team's old group chat, largely stupid pictures she didn't understand from Graham and Antonio, but she's never seen that one, and doesn't push the subject. Modern pop culture references elude her, and Paper Star would undoubtedly be nasty about it.

She lowers her tiger mask with a frown and walks out behind Tammy, keeping her distance.  
  


* * *

  
Jackson Square is packed with life: street vendors and artists and performers, leftover beads from last year's Mardi Gras littering the cobblestones, multiple tarot-reading psychics posted up in front of St. Louis Cathedral. There's a brass band playing somewhere downriver, closer to the hotel, and Sheena catches snippets of a tacky, late night walking ghost tour. Her eyes reflexively roll.

The costumes of the French Quarter are ungodly though, and Sheena keeps her head on swivel as much as possible without looking like too much of a tourist. They walk down Royal Street, the party noise growing louder with every passing step, one mounted cop for every two rowdy drunks sipping booze out of hand grenade-shaped plastic cups. Sheena suppresses her urge to scowl at them, all of them, quickening her step to keep up with Tammy's single-minded pace.

The night is windier and colder than Sheena anticipated— it's Louisiana in October, well, November now, and it was nearly 90 degrees earlier today— and she wonders if she made a grave mistake not bringing her olive trench coat. She has a black scarf and gloves too, tungsten claws not included, but no one else seems bothered by the chill, so she presses on, determined to get enough liquor in her system that the weather will be the least of her concerns.

A bearded, glitterati Marie Antoinette with a garish black spot on their cheekbone passes them in the entry line for Oz, and Sheena quips, "Now _that's_ a beauty mark."

Tammy tsks and acknowledges her presence for the first time in fifteen minutes. "Not everyone was born with one as perfectly placed as yours." 

Sheena's brow furrows, surprised that Tammy noticed something so insignificant about her; her attention to detail really is impressive, not that she'd ever admit that to her face.

"Jealous?" she asks instead.

Tammy side-eyes her, "Something like that."

Sheena doesn't know what that means, so she shifts her weight, one hip cocked to the side, arms akimbo, and gives an indignant harrumph. They don't get ID'd at the door, probably because they're both still sober and the bouncer is busy escorting two crying gay boys to their Uber. She can give that much to Jean-Paul and Antonio: they're drama queens, but not publicly. Every time they've gone dancing they've had one goal: to enjoy their rarely aligned night off, and they always met it. Unlike the boat parties her parents constantly threw on the marina that ended in screaming matches and broken champagne flutes, and her retreating to the pier to get away from them.

She hopes the buzzing irritation in her stomach passes when she finds someone more interesting to occupy her time, someone less grating than Tammy.  
  


* * *

  
Walking into the club is a shock to all her senses, a kaleidoscope of stimuli and movement that instantly overpowers her. She hasn't slept or eaten in hours, and the bass rumbles in her chest hard enough to jostle her bruised ribs. But she's here and she's getting what she wanted, so she clenches her jaw and cuts a path to the nearest bar.

Beside her, Tammy falls in step, and she must see that discomfort shining out beneath her mask because she shouts over the music, prodding, "Not quite what you expected?"

The answer is _no_ , this is not what Sheena expected. It's bigger and louder and ten times more crowded than any gay bar she's ever visited with her friends, and now she's here, effectively alone, while strangers' bodies writhe around her, shining with glitter and sweat and liquor in a way she's never seen before.

"Exactly what I expected," she lies nonchalantly. "I need a drink. Gotta catch up."

Her ribs and knuckles ache in time with her heartbeat, but Oz is still open for two more hours and she's not going to waste it. Multiple eyes follow her path, and she smirks back at several of them noncommittally, daring them to pursue. She'll have to get away from Tammy first though, or they'll assume she's taken by the mean-looking punk girl who tugs at her shoulder.

"What do you want?" Tammy yells over the blaring bass, squeezing her way in front of Sheena to an open space at the bar. "Don't say wine."

"Who the fuck drinks wine at a dance club?" Sheena spits back. She would never order wine at a gay club, no matter how much she preferred it. She might have grown up in a WASPy closet in Maine, but she isn't there now, and she prides herself on her ability to blend into any locale.

Tammy half-turns, one elbow resting on the bar, and her eyes wander up from Sheena's shoes to her mask. "Freaks," she says, "but you look like the type."

Her fuchsia lips twitch on the cusp of a smile, bold and evocative, and Sheena takes a step forward to meet them, towering over Tammy and murmuring low into her ear, "I'm not that kind of freak. I'll have a vodka tonic, _punk_."

She pops her enunciation again, relishing the little shudder of Tammy's shoulders, the admission of her intimidation, before she turns back to the bartender, ordering a vodka tonic and house daiquiri with practiced ease. The drinks are quick, and she reaches into her pocket and drops a crisp $20 bill, miraculously unfolded, on the bar top.

She sips her daiquiri and presses the clear plastic cup straight into the bare skin of Sheena's chest, knuckles flat like a well-landed punch. The contact reshapes a boundary in her mind, a barrier whittled down to nothingness and she lets it fall, comfortable with the change. Tammy's fingers are cold from the drink and the outside air, but Sheena stares her down for a second longer— she doesn't give up staring matches easily, not even with girls who lick their lips and bat their lashes— before she takes the cup and drawls, "Thanks a _bunch_."

"See ya around," Tammy says with a cavalier wave.

They turn their backs on the other and disappear into the crowd. Sheena picks up any woman who crosses her path who remotely fits the bill for what she wants, and dives off the deep end of a wild night. The Go-go boys and girls are all dressed as Wizard of Oz characters, finally a pop culture reference she recognizes, and she loiters beneath the Wicked Witch of the West, strappy black lingerie and pointy hat included, admiring the view and the cluster of other women who share her proclivities.

She dances with several women she likes over the course of an hour: a unicorn wearing nothing but body paint, a slave girl Princess Leia, and what she's fairly certain is genderbent Deadpool. She doesn't care to ask questions or do anything but let them grind on her and feel her up over her dress because the music is loud and the drinks are strong, and across the club wedged in a dancing cluster of her own admirers, Tammy is watching her hawkishly.  
  


* * *

  
There is a middle-aged man here that Sheena instantly loathes, tattooed and greasy with an over-confident smile that screams, "Rohypnol is my best friend." She tails him immediately, detaching herself from a disappointed pirate; her masked eyes locked onto his hands any time they pass near the bar or an untended cocktail. 

In these matters she has learned to always trust her gut: her brain makes excuses under the guise of logic and sensibility, but her stomach never bothers. There are people worse than V.I.L.E. in this world, and she would tolerate none of their cruelty. 

She makes a beeline through the Go-go dancers to intercept his trajectory before he gets to Tammy, who shoos away a scantily-clad, ultra-busty Elmo as she sees her approach.

"Didn't expect you back so soon, U-Haul," Tammy taunts, her straw pressed flat between her teeth. "Can't get enough of me?"

"Yeah," she replies absentmindedly. Sheena barely hears her over her own laser focus, but she catches the way Tammy's lips press together, clearly confused by her lack of response. Brown eyes dart from her face, across the mayhem of the club, landing decisively on the target.

"Dance with me," Tammy says. She slides her arms over Sheena's shoulders and asks in a voice as sharp as her paper shuriken, "Did that guy do something to you?"

Sheena blinks down at her in shock, at her proximity and words, her uncanny perception and willingness to immediately defend her. "No, he- I just a have a bad vibe. He's grossing me out."

Tammy leans into her, smiling against her ear. "Want me to kill him?"

Sheena laughs, abrupt and shrill, the authentic, goofy giggle that escapes her when she's caught unprepared, but says, "No. I mean, _yes_. But no, we probably shouldn't."

They sway to the music like they're at their sixth-grade spring fling. Tammy hasn't objected yet to the placement of Sheena's hands on her waist, thumbs grazing top of her miniskirt, so Sheena, ever the opportunist, leaves them firmly in place. The tension between them tugs the corner of her lips into a feral smile, an electric buzz like building static, suddenly flirtatious instead of smug. Tammy's tongue wets her lips and she smiles up at her, coquettish and charming, "You're no fun, Sheena."

Suddenly, Sheena sees clearly in the liminal space between them, her world bursting from monochrome to technicolor. She's a tiger, ferocious and territorial, and she will pounce on her prey the moment it reveals itself, delectable and pulsing. Tammy isn't hiding anymore; she's waiting to be taken.

"That's what turns me on, Tammy," she shows her teeth, "ruining your murder plots."

"Is that all it takes? I'll be sure to plan more," she coos, her face tilted up. "But I'd let you ruin whatever you wanted."

Relief and heat sear through her body; she didn't misread the situation. Tammy is beautiful and difficult, all sharp, unwelcoming edges if she hasn't extended an invitation— and Sheena didn't realize she _wanted_ an invitation, even though she's been watching her all night and is still staring right at her gorgeous, full, fuchsia-stained lips— so Sheena opens her mouth to dish it out as hard as she takes it.

But to her horror, the sleazy man appears, gruesomely severing their connection like a blunt knife. He sidles up between them, facing Tammy, leans into her space, and slurs, "Can I buy you a drink? You're so exotic, baby. What are you?"

Sheena's stomach roils at the interruption, the coiled-spring tautness of her shoulders and the way this stranger inserted himself between their bodies when they were having a good time. Sheena never has a good time with anyone; she's never felt like that before.

Tammy leans away, mismatched brows furrowed, and snaps, "I'm from Arizona, dipshit. Back off."

He reaches a tattooed hand forward to grab the lapel of her leather jacket and, quick as lightning, a needle of folded paper jabs him hard in the palm. Blood pours down his wrist.

"Fuckin' bitch!" he yelps, jumping backwards and pressing down on his bleeding hand. Sheena casually extends a leg as he staggers back, planting him flat on his ass where the crowd swallows him up, party physics working to their benefit. Tammy grits her teeth, paper weapon white-knuckled in her grasp, looking far more ruffled, more frightened, than Sheena has ever seen.

"A little prick for a little prick," says Sheena lightly. "I like it."

At first Tammy doesn't register her words, awash with anxiety, still snarling at the man who touched her, but Sheena stands beside her, leaning against her arm with gentle pressure, a reassurance, and Tammy's face softens, calmed beneath the strobe lights.

Sheena sips the last of her vodka tonic, the neon green straw smeared with red lipstick, then holds up her left palm to show Tammy her prizes. Car keys dangle beneath a thin wallet pressed between her fingers, embossed with a tacky skull symbol. She lifted them so smoothly that the shithead never knew she was there— he was much too busy harassing Tammy to feel his pockets emptying out— and asks, "Want another drink? This one's on me."

Tammy's lips open into a wide smile. "Sticky fingers," she croons.

Sheena smirks and shrugs. "Guilty."

"Here." Tammy holds out a hand, "You don't have pockets." She openly eyes the curve of Sheena's cleavage and adds, "Unless you're getting creative under that dress."

Sheena slowly slips the wallet and keys into Tammy's jacket, careful not to crumple the papers inside, and murmurs into her ear through a curtain of blue hair, "Wouldn't you like to know."

Tammy tilts her head up until they are nose to nose, amused and smiling. The disco ball above flashes in her eyes and the music thrums in Sheena's chest, and she thinks it should be illegal for Tammy to look the way she does right now: mean and unapologetic and enticing. Even dressed all in black she drips with a colorful, sizzling aura that Sheena tastes in her mouth like rock candy.

"Cat's out of the bag," she replies, saccharine sweet. "But at least buy a girl a drink first."

"Whatever you want," Sheena says without hesitation, and she means it on every level, even the ones that frighten her, so she tears her eyes away, suddenly self-conscious, and adds, "Did you give up on wooing Big Titty Elmo?"

"She wasn't the tickling type," Tammy smiles, taking her by the hand as they weave through the crowd to the bar.  
  


* * *

  
She doesn't lose Tammy again after that, even at the still-crowded bar and when they return to the packed dance floor. Their cadre of admirers orbits them, closer and closer until they realize they're being ignored, and they drift away to leave them to dance alone, to dance together. It happens organically, easily, and by choice; she likes to watch Tammy dance with reckless abandon, the release and mischief brimming in her eyes. She likes to touch her while she moves; she likes to move with her.

Tammy knows all the words of the esoteric indietronica songs blaring over the speakers, bouncing with her hands in the air, just managing not to slosh her daiquiri out of her glow-in-the-dark cup. She turns and presses her back to Sheena's front, grinding to the rhythm, and Sheena smiles. She's no coward; she's not afraid of a pretty girl rolling her hips against her body, and she knows how to dance with gays of every sort. Her fingers graze the edge of her fishnet stockings, just touching the underside of her skirt, and her other hand rests firmly between Tammy's shoulder blades, her palm imprinted with the studs of her jacket, bending her at an angle, pressing her closer.

Tammy's mouth pops open in momentary surprise before she gets to work, and Sheena would be lying if she said she wasn't impressed with her flexibility and rhythm, and the way she catches her smiling when she glances back behind her, seductive and playful. Maybe her own desire clouds her judgment, or the parade of strangers from earlier revved her engine, but Sheena's body burns with the flashing rainbow lights and the leather on her skin, and Tammy licks her lips and dances in a way that leaves no question about her intentions. 

The music shifts again to some pop remix she doesn't know, but she can match a beat and this one's slower and sexy as hell, so she spins Tammy around to face her. She arches her back, their chests pressed together, legs intertwined, and Tammy slowly lifts up her tiger mask until it rests in platinum blonde hair, as intimate as slipping out of a dress. Sheena pulls their bodies flush with hands unyielding and their foreheads just touch, Tammy's arms around her shoulders, their noses brushing, neither one of them backing down from the challenge.

She feels like she's doused in gasoline and she's just waiting a spark, for ignition, and when Tammy chews on her own lips, Sheena lights the match herself.

She feels sticky lipstick first, then the soft lips beneath, pillowy and searching, and hears a tiny gasp that sucks the air away from her and into Tammy. She's drunk on it, this erotic elation, more satisfied with the rhythm of their bodies and the wetness of Tammy's tongue in her mouth, the scrape of fingers in her hair, than any alcohol could provide. They dance and kiss and don't stop moving together, captivated and tortured by the slow discovery of their bodies.

The spikes of the leather jacket press into her chest: Tammy's resting against her so much that Sheena realizes she's holding nearly her full weight, and she's absolutely breathless, leaning in for more, her scarred fingers digging into the fabric of her striped dress. Sheena separates them just barely, enough to breathe, not to lose their contact. She won't let her fall a third time tonight.

"I like you better when you can't talk," Sheena exhales hotly.

Tammy blinks herself awake, coming to her senses before she flushes, and bites Sheena's lower lip hard enough for it to hurt. She says, "Feeling's mutual."

Sheena laughs and takes the lead, tilting Tammy's head back and guiding their lips together, kissing her until she's raw.  
  


* * *

  
Tammy gets the first work-related call just before 4am and, even though Sheena whines and tells her not to answer it, she says, "Hold my drink."

Sheena obliges as Tammy swipes open the video call from Professor Maelstrom, and then, without warning, grabs Sheena's cheeks in a vice grip with her other hand, parting her lips with her tongue, hot and wet and hungry, and on full display. 

"Really, Paper Star?" asks Maelstrom, his voice thin over the pounding rap remix. He's wearing his standard attire again, not that awful clown costume from earlier.

Sheena's drunk as hell but still more than capable of being embarrassed, but she's too busy melting into Tammy's mouth to think about consequences. She ignores their audience and the professional suicide she just committed, and pulls her closer instead, double fisting their drinks as she wraps her arms around her waist. She always heard that Paper Star liked fucking with people, and maybe, when she's with her, Tigress does too.

Dr. Bellum's head pops into the frame with a surprised, "Ope."

"It's too early for this," Maelstrom sighs.

"It's obviously still _party time_ in the United States," Dr. Bellum says. "They are six hours behind us."

"I am aware-"

"Well now," Coach Brunt interjects with a slap on the table. "Happy Halloween, girls!"

"Hang up the phone, Gunnar," drawls Countess Cleo in the background. "Let them have their fun. You're making it weird."

He groans and the video closes without further commentary. Paper Star pulls back, breathless, and pockets her phone with a wicked grin.

She drags her nails up the bare skin of Sheena's chest, scratching soft lines up to the base of her neck. Sheena shudders, just a little bit, just enough for Tammy to feel it beneath her fingertips. Her hands thread higher, up the back of Sheena's neck, tickling and soft. The scent of sugar and rum drifts around her mouth as she murmurs, "Let's get out of here."

"Let's," Sheena agrees.  
  


* * *

  
The open container laws of New Orleans are much too tempting to resist as they bounce down Decatur Street, avoiding the puking coeds and mounted riot police. They leave Oz arm-in-arm, but pop in at a streetside bar half a block down for one final Hurricane that neither of them really need. They blow the last of the cash in the stolen wallet, which wasn't much to begin with.

Sheena holds the car keys up to the yellow light of the street lamps, sucking down her boozy to-go drink beside a po-boy vendor, still selling sandwiches from his cart. She frowns. The keys are so old they don't even have an electronic alarm function. Sheena shivers violently, the cold air and cold drink catching up to her, unable to hide the goosebumps that prickle her arms.

"Take my jacket," says Tammy. "I'm not cold."

"I'm fine," Sheena brushes her off, still peering at the key. That asshole's car is absolutely not worth stealing. "I swear... this is like a '99 Camry. Like, how is it still running?"

Paper Star squints as they walk, "Gross."

"Oh well," says Sheena.

She tosses the keys down a sewer drain without a second glance.

Tammy's eyebrows shoot straight up and she barks a laugh. "Oh my god, Sheena. I already wanted to fuck you, but _wow_." She sets down the dregs of her Hurricane, wobbling slightly as she leans, and takes off her jacket. She staggers forward, holding it out in front of her. "Put this on, you sexy bitch."

Sheena doesn't argue this time, not with a compliment like that being thrown her way, but slides her arms into the sleeves, relishing the warmth and the smell of it, infused with Tammy's woody perfume. All the careful parts of her brain shut down until she's left with horny bravado, and a beguiling, lopsided smile.

She says, "I'll put it on, but you have to promise to take it off me later."

Tammy hums and watches her, eyes hooded, and doesn't answer. She stoops slowly to pick up her drink, one finger slipped delicately past the plastic rim.  
  


* * *

  
They get past the lobby, but don't clear the courtyard before they fall into each other, lips parted, hands roaming. She wants her here and _now_ , and the courtyard is mercifully vacant of other guests, the only indication of past company the full ashtrays resting on the wrought-iron tables. Sheena drags her to a dark corner and presses Tammy against the red brick wall, her hands pinned overhead, and her palm slides up beneath her black tank top, thumb grazing across the taut plane of her stomach and the fabric of her bra.

Tammy is vocal, _really_ vocal, humming and moaning, gasping for more, and Sheena burns white-hot for the sounds she's making. She loves the noise she evokes, the whimpers that vibrate across her own tongue, teasing and wanton. Tammy flexes her arms against Sheena's hand— she releases her immediately— pulling her wrists down to readjust, and opens her bloodshot eyes, breathing hard.

"Sit," she exhales.

Sheena obliges immediately, all pretense of control gone the moment she was ordered. The spikes of the jacket dig into her back as she leans into the iron chair, mouth watering as Tammy climbs onto her lap. Her skirt slides up her thighs, and Sheena drags a nail along the edge of her lacy underwear, panting and desperate for more.

It's not a lap dance, not exactly, but Tammy is _absolutely_ in her lap and she is _absolutely_ moving, and Sheena's fingers dig into her ass, pulling her down for more contact, more friction, as she grinds. Her eyes reflect the little fairy lights strung over them, and she kisses Sheena slowly, languidly, her tongue and hips moving in perfect, hypnotic time. 

Sheena holds her chin and slides her middle finger into Tammy's mouth, pulling down her lip, just grazing her teeth. Tammy hums again, her tongue flat beneath Sheena's fingertip, sucking and wet. Her finger slides out of her mouth with a filthy _pop_ , traveling lower and pushing up her skirt. Tammy shifts up onto her shins, desperate for her fingers, clutching Sheena's shoulders, voice caught in her throat, and she presses forward to finally find her hand.

But her bony hip bumps the bruise on Sheena's ribcage like a wrecking ball, so hard she winces and chokes out an undignified groan, lurching forward into Tammy's chest as her diaphragm spasms into ugly, strained hiccups.

"Oh god," says Tammy, staggering off of her. "I didn't mean to- do you have drunkups?"

Sheena slaps a hand over her mouth, nodding as she hiccups again, too drunk to be mad at herself for killing the mood. The pain in her chest pushes her closer and closer to sobriety with every inhale, and the magnitude of her intoxication turns on her like a capsized boat.

"I think I just need to eat," she says between hiccups.

Tammy rises slowly from her lap, pulls down her miniskirt, and steadies herself on the table. She blinks twice. "God, me too. I'm fucking wasted."

"We," Sheena hiccups and flinches, "probably shouldn't try to do anything, um, else."

"Yeah," Tammy nods, wiping at her smeared eyeliner.

She swallows heavily, coming down from the high of her arousal like a meteor falling to earth, and blurts, "I wanted to though."

"Me too," Tammy practically moans, extending a hand to help her up. "I mean, look at you."

Sheena stands before her with tangled hair, bloodshot eyes, smudged makeup, her shoulders slouched. She hiccups again, then says, "Not my best look."

"No, you're still super sexy," Tammy pouts, and Sheena thinks that might be the nicest thing she's ever heard her say. "Do you wanna get a po-boy?"

"Yeah," Sheena groans. "And some water."

Tammy extends her hand again, the pout still on her lips, but her sharpness softens the moment Sheena interlaces their fingers. They hold hands through the lobby, moving slowly. Tammy's steps are short and stilted, and even through her inebriation Sheena can see she's in pain. The bruises behind her knees have bloomed black and blue, matching her hair.

"Gonna make it, punk?" She hiccups. "Do you want, like, a piggyback ride?"

Tammy straightens her stride at once, proud and unaffected again. "No. You'd kill us both in those heels."

But Sheena slows her pace anyway, watching cautiously from the corner of her eye.  
  


* * *

  
The shrimp-slinging man is still open even though it's nearly 4:30 in the fucking morning, and the girls abandon all sense of propriety and etiquette as soon as they have their sandwiches in hand. It's too cold to sit outside, so they walk back to the hotel, past the cement flowerbeds in Jackson Square, stuffing their faces with food, and downing two half-liter bottles of water until the hiccups are effectively drowned.

By the time they get back to their room, climbing the stairs at a snail's pace, their stomachs are full; only the partially eaten bag of cajun chips remain, a bit too spicy for Sheena's taste, but she's still too tipsy to be discerning. The exhaustion of the day— the adrenaline, the injuries, the unexpected desire— catches up to her. The hotel room is like her own slice of nirvana: quiet and clean and full of more water bottles, so they flop onto the bed together, finishing off the remains of their food.

Sheena unlaces Tammy's combat boots without being prompted; she would only hurt herself trying to do it alone. She glances back at Tammy, waiting for a snarky comment or better, a slutty one, but she only says, "Will you get the fishnets too?"

Sheena's fingers reach for the edge of the stockings, one leg at a time, and rolls the black netting down slowly, especially careful around her knees. Her legs are kissable and soft, but it doesn't feel right to be intimate that way now, much too vulnerable after the moment passed. Instead she stuffs the stockings in Tammy's boots and shrugs out of the studded leather jacket.

"I thought that was my job," Tammy says.

"It was, until I saw how fucked up your legs are. You won't be skipping around anytime soon. You need to keep off your feet." Sheena sets down the jacket and steps out of her own shoes, tossing them aside. For a moment she debates turning away from Tammy to undress, but she doesn't want to come across as prudish. And it's not like she's ashamed or weird about being in her underwear or anything like that, she reasons.

She grabs the hem of her dress and pulls it overhead, and radiating pain courses through her ribs and chest, her bruises pulsing with the unexpected stretch, knocking the wind out of her for the third time in 24 hours. She hunches forward, hugging herself, arms trapped in her dress as she tries to catch her breath.

"Holy _shit_ , Sheena." Tammy exhales. The bed creaks as she rises from it, completely aghast. She hobbles closer, reaching for the dress, slowly untangling Sheena's arms. She reaches out like she wants to touch her ribs, then lowers her hands.

"I'm good. Nothing's broken."

Tammy stares at her ribs in disbelief and disgust, then tosses the dress onto her luggage. "Have you seen yourself? God. Just... put some pajamas on and lay down."

She pokes around near the minifridge, grabs the room key, and walks barefoot from the room without an explanation.

Sheena closes her jaw and shakes her head, still vodka-fogged, but does what she's told. As she slides into her pajama top, immeasurably grateful she packed a button-up, she catches herself in the mirror and freezes.

The rectangular bruise beneath her breasts is the same color as the Hurricanes they drank: the bright red and swirling purple of broken blood vessels, a rim of darkening blue around the edge. The discoloration wasn't so apparent earlier, and she didn't register that it spanned the width of her entire front body. No wonder Tammy's hip bone hurt her so profoundly.

She putters around the room, washing her face and plugging in her phone before she sinks into the bed, propped up on pillows, and reaches for the remote. The hotel TV Guide has a limited selection, mostly horror movies and reruns, but Sheena doesn't know anything modern and suspects Tammy won't be interested in watching _I Love Lucy_ reruns. The boys used to make fun of her for it, especially Graham, the wealth of pop culture knowledge that he was. She knew a lot too— she isn't uncultured— but her typical Halloween fare was Hitchcockian in nature, remnants of a bygone era, the sort of films her parents used to watch. Though she did sneak a viewing of _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ when she was 14 before she was shipped off to V.I.L.E. Island.

The electronic door lock whirs and Tammy returns carrying two neatly-tied plastic bags of ice, openly limping. She wordlessly drops one beside Sheena and the other at the end of the bed, then drags her backpack into the bathroom. Sheena presses the bag of ice to her ribs, smooshing it with a pillow, and suppresses a groan. The recommended post-mission recovery was always standard RICE, though Sheena isn't crazy enough to do ice baths the way Jean-Paul does. She has no desire to suffer outside of what is absolutely necessary, and the ice-and-cold-hotel-room combination is already pushing the boundaries of her discomfort tolerance.

When Tammy emerges she's wearing a t-shirt and red sweatpants, and her hair is pulled into a low ponytail. She climbs back onto the bed beside Sheena, groaning, and shoves a pillow and her ice pack beneath her knees. They lay in silence for a time, icing down their injuries as Sheena flips through the channels— she still hasn't settled on anything yet, but really doesn't want to watch _Scream_ because she's jumpy and the embarrassment might kill her— and Tammy occupies herself by folding the po-boy wrapping paper into little animals.

She scowls at the lettuce bits, crumpling up her creations. "Too much mayo," she frowns, and leans off the bed to dig around in her other jacket, the now-dry green one. She returns to her seat with a small square of pink paper, folded into the shape of a cat. "There," she says. "A deadly tiger."

"Aww. I forgive it because it's so cute," Sheena says, taking the origami cat into her palm. Tammy laughs and Sheena tries her luck, though both of them are still pretending to peruse the channel listing. "That must be how you get away with everything."

"Oh, _smooth_. Something like that-" Tammy bolts upright, "Stop! Go back! Oh my god, _Hocus Pocus_. I used to love this movie."

Sheena smiles, pleasantly surprised by Tammy's genuine enthusiasm, and settles back against her own pillow, propping her paper tiger up on the nightstand. She says, "I've never seen it."

"Well, now we have to watch it. It just started too," she says, fixated on the flat screen. "I've probably seen it 50 times."

"Back in Arizona?"

Tammy giggles, a breathy sound, her arms crossed. "No, so," she drags out the word. "That was sort of a lie. I was born in Okinawa. But I did watch _Hocus Pocus_ at least twenty times in Tuscon. My parents divorced and I jumped around a lot. But I grew up mostly in Arizona."

Sheena laughs too, trying not to openly dangle on her every word. She doesn't push for more, instead gesturing to the screen with the remote. "It's super weird. I lived like an hour-and-a-half away from Salem, but we never went. Even for Halloween. My parents were stuck ass-kissing the upper echelons of Maine's high society year-round."

The reveal is dangerous— even her teammates didn't know where she was from— but Tammy peers at her and she looks back. They've both placed a knife into the hands of the other: leverage, something personal, even a scrap of it, knowing that sort of intimacy could jeopardize the mission and compromise the operative in a way that casual sex could never match. Tammy's expression is sweet and easy for once, and her brown eyes flick around Sheena's face like she isn't quite certain where to look either.

Sheena swallows, blushing, and redirects the conversation back to something less frightening. She's too drunk and frayed around the edges to know how to handle that intimacy; she could barely manage something so profound sober.

"Bette Midler's in this?" she asks, impressed.

"God, yes," Tammy shifts onto her side, struggling to find a comfortable position for her legs. "She's _genius_."

By the time the opening scene ends and the poor black cat devotes his life to guarding the witches' cottage, Sheena is actively shivering. Her ice melted by the first commercial break, and she desperately wants to sink beneath the covers.

"You're cold a lot for someone from Maine." Tammy watches the goosebumps on her pale arms with interest.

"That makes no sense," Sheena raises an eyebrow. "But by that logic you should be able to warm me up, little miss arid desert climate."

"Scoot back," she says, tossing her bag of melted ice on the floor as she peels back the comforter. She drags herself up between Sheena's legs, stuffing her pillow beneath her tender knees, and leans her back against Sheena's chest at an angle, careful not to push against her bruise, pulling the blankets up around them both.

Sheena wraps her arms around Tammy's waist and, when she doesn't object, rests her chin on her shoulder until her cheek grazes her ear. They sit like that for a long time, saying nothing, wrapped in each other's warmth, eyes fixed on the screen.  
  


* * *

  
Sometime around the raising of Billy the zombie man, Sheena's lips begin to travel down Tammy's neck, enjoying her woody smell and the thrum of her pulse against her mouth. This is uncharted territory, and for all of Sheena's posturing and attempts at bombshell glamor, she's never done this with a woman; the fragile moments with kissing and touching, resting together gently with a movie on in the background.

Sheena's watching _Hocus Pocus_ , she really is, but she's still drunk from the liquor and Tammy's heat, so she presses her lips to the smooth skin of her exposed neck in the dip where it meets her shoulder. Her hands remain still, embracing her waist— she doesn't think they should do anything else— but she wants to keep kissing her, quietly and delicately, wholly without ulterior motives.

Tammy hums and tilts her head away, exposing more of her neck, her eyes closed. "Don't like the movie? Or you're just too gay to focus?"

"The second one," Sheena murmurs with a huff. "Are you distracted?"

"Mm-hmm."

She leans back with a smirk. "I'll stop then."

"Rude," Tammy pouts and turns to face her, suddenly awake. "You stop when I tell you to stop."

"Bossy," says Sheena, but she kisses her anyway, her tongue slipping past her lips, leisurely and light. Tammy agrees, mirroring her; she opens her mouth and presses forward and makes a sound that's closer to a purr than anything Sheena could produce.

"You taste like fried shrimp," Tammy laughs.

"So do you."

They smile against each other's lips for a moment before she settles back to her original position, and Sheena resumes idly kissing her neck. She murmurs, "I should brush my teeth."

"Wait for a commercial," says Tammy, and she sinks lower against Sheena's chest.

 _Hocus Pocus_ is cute; she likes it more than she thought she would, probably because there's a pretty, equally tipsy girl in her pajamas watching it with her, and it's Halloween in New Orleans, and she's had a really great night.  
  


* * *

  
The movie ends as orange dawn light tinges the edge of the curtains. They've flattened out onto their backs, sinking steamboats in the Mississippi River, still lazily intertwined.

"I liked the book blinking. Like they're going to come back," Sheena says blearily. "Witches always come back."

"Movie's a masterpiece. Start to finish," Tammy murmurs. She's wedged against the side of Sheena's body, cheek flat above her breast, careful not to put weight on her bruised ribcage. "And like, of all the ways to go, dancing 'til you die? Not bad." Her voices trails off, thick as molasses, "I'm sleepy."

Sheena hums in agreement, closing her eyes. The admission is cute, innocent, not something she would have expected from the detached Paper Star, even after the strange revelations of their night. She feels the sudden twitch of Tammy's foot against her own calf— _the hypnagogic jerk_ , Dr. Bellum called it in her physiology lecture, and Sheena snorted in the back of the class— and wonders if she's dreaming about falling again. Her arm tightens around Tammy's shoulders, rustling against her t-shirt.

"I'm not really a cuddler," Sheena murmurs.

Tammy shifts her weight, drawing closer, looping one leg over both of Sheena's, and sighs drowsily, "Neither am I."

"It's just cold."

"Yeah."

So they lie there, warm and satisfied, and Tammy's breathing evens out while Sheena quietly catalogues the bridge of her nose and curve of her jawline, content with all the little scars she can count like sheep as her fingers rest against her forearm. When she's fairly certain that Tammy is completely asleep, she presses a small kiss to the top of her head and falls head first into a heavy slumber.  
  


* * *

  
The problem is that operatives never know their itinerary in advance, so they find out that afternoon that Sheena is assigned to Budapest and Tammy to Lagos, and they aren't getting a single day off.

They don't talk about waking up and falling back asleep, arms intertwined; or the way Sheena burrowed completely beneath the comforter, her cheek pressed to Tammy's chest; or the way she woke and breathed her in and saw her chance to kiss her again, so she took it, starting at her sternum and working up to her lips where she was met with closed eyes and a smile and arms stretched overhead.

They don't talk about how Sheena whispered _good morning, sleepyhead_ and slipped her some tongue when she draped across her body, or how Tammy moaned and writhed just a little bit, just enough for Sheena to moan too, burning hot despite the November weather and frigid hotel AC unit, fingers woven through waves of white-blonde hair, the sensation powerful enough for Sheena to ignore the ache of her ribcage, pain inside and out.

They don't talk about any of it when they finally get out of bed; they don't talk much at all, except to pass each other water and Advil, and to tell off the Cleaners when they repeatedly knock on the door, bitching about missing their flights. They sit together in the back of the nondescript black car, still exhausted and out of their element, looking anywhere but at each other.

They part ways at the airport tram, both of them headed to different terminals, Sheena with the Cleaners and Tammy alone. The loaded silence stretches between them long enough that even the Cleaners look away, busying themselves with their luggage and pretending they have something very important to read on their phones, not that they know how to use them.

Tammy looks at a point past Sheena's head and flatly says, "See ya around."

They stand face to face as Tammy shifts the straps of her electric blue backpack on her shoulders, waiting for a response. Her green jacket pulls down and falls open, revealing a field of dark hickeys dotting her neck.

Sheena groans, "Oh my god, stop. You look like you got into a fight with a vacuum cleaner."

She drops to one knee, rooting through her luggage until she finds her black scarf. She sets it around Tammy's neck and loops it, her knuckles gently grazing the underside of her chin.

"I wonder whose fault that could be," Tammy murmurs.

"Like you wanted me to stop."

The problem is that Sheena wants to kiss her again, here in public and daylight where the Cleaners would undoubtedly report their relationship to the Faculty as more than a fling. But there's a pretty girl in front of her and she's all bundled in her scarf and Sheena's not going to _not_ kiss her, so she says, "Fuck it," and leans down for more.

Tammy smiles into the kiss, her lips warm and willing, and when they part again she repeats, "See ya around," but this time it sounds like a promise.  
  


* * *

  
When Sheena finally connects to the finicky in-flight wifi, an unknown number pings on her phone.

Unknown   
  
**Today** 7:18 PM   
i'll be in geneva on the 12th.   
  


She raises an eyebrow and sucks her lower lip into her teeth. She's never been to Switzerland and she's never withheld judgment on people who texted without correctly capitalizing their words, but at least this was a complete sentence with mostly proper grammar. She saves the number without asking who it is.

Punk   
  
**Today** 7:18 PM   
i'll be in geneva on the 12th.   
  
**Today** 7:55 PM   
Interesting.   
  


Sheena immediately submits a travel request for Geneva in the V.I.L.E. operative tracker, blocking out a whole week for "scouting and mission prep." She stares out the plane window, watching as the Mississippi disappears below, and questions her desperation level. She _is_ desperate, she can admit that much to herself, but would rather fling herself out the emergency exit than project that image for others to reach the same conclusion.

But Tammy messages her first and, when she instantly responds again, the uncertainty in Sheena's mind evaporates.

so vague, kitty cat.   
  
I'm sure you can keep up. How'd you even get this number?   
  
cleo gave you up. she didn't even hesitate.   
pretty sure she wants me to get laid.   
thinks it'll calm me down.   
she's my bisexual guardian angel.   
even tho maelstrom's my faculty adviser.   
  


Sheena blushes and laughs in spite of herself. Tammy isn't nearly as demure as she once assumed, and maybe Cleo is right: it would calm her down. Both of them. At least if Sheena had her way, sober and focused, Tammy wouldn't have anything left in her but bliss by the end of the night. She starts typing something along those lines, as lascivious as she dares on a potentially monitored phone, then backspaces. She's not one to overpromise and under-deliver, and prefers to let her hands do the talking.

And here I've got Coach Brunt, the most committed lesbian sherpa. I rest easy in her strong, butch hands.   
  
careful, you'll have to fight cookie for her.   
  
What??   
  
they're boinking. no question.   
  


Sheena's jaw drops. The rumors of Countess Cleo and Dr. Bellum were rampant at the academy, so much so that Sheena never assumed they were anything but lovers, particularly because they openly doted and bickered in equal measure. But Brunt and Cookie? That was news to her, the sort of salacious gossip she loved to spread. Across the aisle both Cleaners glance up at her.

She viciously snaps, "What?"

They go back to reading the in-flight magazine without comment.

You're kidding. I'm losing my mind. Cookie only shows up at the island once a fucking year.   
  
i know, but how typical for brunt to crush on the unavailable femme.   
  
bet that one night's great tho.   
  


Sheena chews her lip, chapstick scraping off onto her teeth. She goes for it.

It's what we sapphics do. Have one great night, then nothing until Geneva.   
  


There is a long stretch of nothingness and Sheena flinches, wondering if she's given too much away, too clingy already. She's never done anything but casual hookups, and certainly never gives out her number or makes future plans. She stares at the screen, shoulders hunched in regret until three dots appear and she heaves a sigh of relief she didn't know she was holding.

**Today** 8:02 PM   
well i have bad news.   
  
i booked a room.   
  
but there's only one bed.   
  
Interesting.   
  
I hear Geneva's cold this time of year.   
  


Sheena reclines in her chair with a coy smile, careful not to bother her ribs. She settles in for a long flight with a pink origami cat in her coat pocket and, as her phone lights up again, she thinks that maybe there was never a problem after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! That was twice as long as I originally intended, but mean sapphics are my weakness. Please leave me a comment if you enjoyed this one-shot!


End file.
